The rumor reached the Hall of Three the way cold reaches bone—slow, certain, impossible to ignore once it's there.
It began in the observation barracks, where Captain Darg kept reports like coals under ash. But ash smudges. A relay runner spoke too loudly at a water trough; a scent-reader cursed the word serpent after too much bitter brew; a clerk, pale and sweating, asked the wrong superior if "the child with the red eyes" was to be listed as a formal threat. By the time the day-cycle lamps guttered in the outer galleries, the whisper had slithered into corridors lined with skull-marked spears: a surface child marks our scouts, a serpent-whelp who paints silence with oil and dust.
Three scouts were dragged from their cots before dawn-cycle, wrists bound, masks yanked off. Not the ones who boasted—boasters are easy to break and easier to discredit—but the quiet ones who had come back with their eyes too open and their mouths too closed. They were taken to the low chamber under the Hall, where stalactites wept mineral tears into bowls etched with the sigil of the Rak'hor.
Torchlight deepened the cuts on the stone; steam from a heated basin made the air taste of salt and iron. An old interrogator named Tesh presided, spine straight as a spear, voice soft as worn leather. He had served under three sets of chieftains, and his patience was legend.
"You will tell only what rock would tell," Tesh murmured to the first scout, a narrow woman with ash-stained cheeks. "No bravery. No shame. Only stone."
The woman's mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. "Stone says we were not alone."
Tesh inclined his head. "Begin."
Her report bled out in simple lines: twice-marked routes, a trail of lamp oil appearing where none should be, the prickle of being watched from below eye-level, the faint imprint of scales smaller than a thumb. "Not wild," she said once, eyes unfocusing as if replaying the path. "Deliberate. He wanted us to know."
The second scout—a scent-reader with banded mask still dangling from his throat—added more: a tongue-flick trace in dust; the repeat of small serpent patterns at three separate seams; a child's heat felt and gone, as if the air itself had learned to close behind him. "We adjusted," he rasped. "Widened, braided, doubled back. He adjusted faster."
"And the clansmen?" Tesh asked.
"Alerted," the reader said. "Not by sound. By pattern. They chased. Twice we slipped. Once we did not."
The third scout, jaw bruised, spoke last. "I saw him," he whispered, as if speaking louder would bring the child into the room. "Red eyes. Low. He should have been prey. He was a mirror."
Tesh let the words settle, the way fine dust settles on still water. Then he dismissed the guards to the chamber's door and leaned in so close the scouts could smell the mint-stone on his breath. "You will repeat this to the Hall."
"No," Captain Darg said from the archway, voice tight, surprise betraying that he hadn't known the interrogation had been called. "You will repeat it to me."
For a heartbeat, old Tesh and Darg weighed each other, iron and bone. Then Tesh's lips thinned. "The Hall has already summoned them," he said. "You will stand at my shoulder and translate your ash into decree."
Darg swallowed whatever reply had been forming. Above them, a horn boomed once—low, formal, not the sharp cry of alarm but the round note that called the Chieftains' Council. The Hall of Three was waking.
---
The Hall of Three did not look like a place where men argued. It looked like a place where quarrels were ended. Three stone thrones rose from the floor as if grown there, each set before a pillar carved with the sigils of its aspect: a lion's roaring head for Pride-Chieftain Rakorr; an open hand heavy with coins and teeth for Greed-Chieftain Mavros; a lattice of lines and measures for Logic-Chieftain Sael. Torches burned with steady mineral flame. Drums thumped a slow triplet from the far vestibule—presence, presence, presence—while the floor crew sprinkled scent-powder that marked the air with the Rak'hor's claim: iron, salt, smoke.
Rakorr entered first, broad-shouldered and bare-armed, scars laddering one bicep. His crown-band sat low, the lion sigil glinting like a promise of violence. Mavros came next, robes draped like a trader's tent, rings chiming. Sael arrived last, plain-armed and alert-eyed, with a slate tucked under one elbow. As they took their thrones, the hall bent—sound hushed, bodies bowed, breath caught.
Ceremony began with the Tally of Holdings: a clerk recited stores of grain, salt, iron, and captives; a second intoned routes held and taxed. Then came Whispers to Weigh—the formal space where rumors were shaped into questions worthy of rulers.
Tesh led the three scouts forward. They knelt as one and pressed their foreheads to the stone before rising to speak. Darg took his place a half-step behind Tesh, jaw set.
"Whisper," Rakorr said, voice like a struck shield.
"Whisper," Tesh echoed, and inclined his head to the first scout.
She did not gild. She did not excuse. She told them the serpent-child marked their silence and painted it so others could see. The scent-reader described the oil and the scale and the heat. The bruised scout spoke of red eyes and mirrors. Tesh, precise as a chisel, asked only to clarify distance, timing, repetition.
When they finished, the hall held stillness the way a stranger holds a blade—tight, impressed, unsure whether to admire or cut.
Rakorr's lip curled. "You were turned by a cub?"
"No," the scent-reader said, and for a risk-wet heartbeat the hall's guards shifted forward. But the reader didn't flinch. "We were observed by one. Turned by the clan he warned."
Mavros's rings clicked as his fingers steepled. "A child who outmeasures our steps," he mused. "That is not a loss. That is a resource we have not yet priced."
Sael's slate scratched—a single neat line. "If three teams encountered the same signature at different seams, then the child is not luck. He is system. Which means the village is training eyes in the dirt, or the child is rare enough to change our calculus."
Rakorr's eyes were embers now. "My calculus is simple. Scouts swagger back without a map. A child laughs in our tunnels. I say—" His fist thumped the throne-arm once, not loud, but the whole floor seemed to answer. "—we correct the insult."
Mavros didn't smile, but profit warmed his gaze. "A living serpent cub would fetch more than pride. A symbol. A tool. Perhaps a pet that learns to bite on command." His glance slid to the scouts. "Alive is better than dead. But a corpse carries a message too."
Sael raised his slate. "Before you skip to trophies, consider: if the child can see what men cannot, a direct strike without a complete map will cost more than it pays. The Veylin smell us. Neutrals stir. We don't yet know the surface tribe's depth of strength or allies. Pride wants speed. Greed wants gain. Logic wants odds."
Rakorr shifted, irritated by measured words in a moment that demanded heat. "Save your counting for granaries, Sael. We will sit later for plans. Now we weigh the whisper."
"Whisper weighed," Tesh said, bowing. "The Hall accepts that the serpent-child exists, that he compromised operations, and that his village is alert."
Formality settled like a cloak. The drums ceased. Scent-powder burned to a low sweetness.
Rakorr turned his face to the ranks. "Stand the council to second bell. Strip the barracks of every muffler who thinks stone is a mother's lap, and replace them with scouts who understand teeth. We meet then for Decree."
No one in the hall tasted any hint of agreement yet. Pride burned. Greed glittered. Logic wrote quiet lines. But the axes had not yet begun to cross. That would come when the Hall reconvened and ceremony could no longer keep the hunt from the hounds.
As the crowd emptied, Darg finally exhaled. The reports were out of his drawer and in the world now, hammered into truth by ritual. He told himself that was good—that action would follow. Far below that thought, something smaller winced: once the lions took the scent, a captain's leash shortened.
At the stairhead, Tesh paused beside him. "Stone speaks whether we listen or not," the old man murmured. "Better the Hall hears the first echo than the last."
Darg nodded, eyes on the great doors swinging shut. The second bell would bring the real storm—the one ceremony could not tame.
The second bell tolled, and the Hall of Three filled again. This time, ceremony thinned like smoke before a storm. The Tally was skipped; the Whispers were already weighed. Now came Decree—where three voices clashed until two were bound in blood to one decision.
Rakorr entered first again, shoulders rolled forward, fury wrapped around him like a cloak. He sat with his arms crossed, glaring down the chamber as if daring anyone to speak before him. Mavros glided in moments later, robes perfumed, rings polished so that every twitch of his fingers sent a sparkle through the room. Sael arrived last, his slate already marked, eyes flicking between his peers with that unsettling calm that made warriors itch to strike him.
The hall quieted.
Rakorr did not wait. He slammed a hand on his throne-arm, voice carrying like stone breaking.
"A cub mocks us. Scouts stumble like drunkards. The clans above dare chase our shadows. I say no more whispers, no more powder and chalk. We march. We seize the child and paint their cave red with the lesson: no one hunts Rak'hor."
The gathered ranks roared in approval—scouts, guards, smiths who remembered slights sharper than debts. The floor trembled under their pounding.
Mavros lifted a single hand, and his rings chimed against each other. The noise subsided—not by fear, but by curiosity. Profit always made men listen.
"You would paint the walls with blood," Mavros purred. "And blood fades. But imagine—this serpent cub alive, caged, broken, then paraded through our markets. His eyes a warning, his capture a promise. Every neutral tribe would whisper: the Rak'hor tame even the most cunning. His life would buy us decades of tribute."
Rakorr bared his teeth. "You want to parade a snake on a leash while the clans laugh that we feared to strike? Death is cleaner."
"Profit is heavier than pride," Mavros shot back, voice still smooth but edge sharp.
And so it began. The two spoke over each other—Rakorr roaring of insult, Mavros weaving images of gold and power. The hall split: some thumping spears for pride, others clinking coins against stone for greed. The noise rose like a storm trapped in a cavern.
Sael let them rage for a time, then stood, slate raised. His voice was not loud, but it carried.
"Neither of you have counted the cost."
The hall stilled—not out of respect, but the pause before a blow.
Sael strode to the center, scratching a line across his slate. "You dream of parades, of blood, but hear this: a direct march will fail. Scouts lost, maps unmade, paths marked by a child. The Veylin watch, the neutrals smell. We risk feeding both enemies if we strike blind."
Rakorr leaned forward, eyes burning. "You would have us sit while insults breed?"
"I would have us plan," Sael replied, voice steady. "You forget what makes us strong. Not your fists. Not your coins. Our structure. Three heads, three paths. And only two must agree." He looked up, eyes glinting. "If you rush without odds, you throw away the third head."
The hall churned with mutters. Sael's words had weight, but not the kind that stirred blood. Pride demanded speed, Greed demanded gain. Logic demanded patience—patience most here did not have.
Mavros rose, voice cutting through the noise.
"Then let us compromise, Sael, since you love your counts. We do not march blind. We march with nets. If the cub slips, we kill him. If he does not, we tame him. Pride is sated, profit secured."
Rakorr's laugh boomed, harsh and raw. "You think I'll leash myself to your cage?"
Mavros's rings gleamed. "Not leash. Share. Two thrones agreeing, as the law binds us."
For a moment the chamber teetered, caught between violence and decree. Rakorr's knuckles whitened on the throne-arm. Mavros spread his hands, calm as a market stall but eyes hard as stone.
The hall began to crack into sides. Shouts rose, echoing:
"Strike now!"
"Bring him alive!"
"Pride!"
"Profit!"
Guards shifted uneasily. A spear haft cracked against the floor. A ring of warriors squared off, their loyalties as obvious as their scars.
Sael rapped his slate hard enough to echo like a bell. "Fools!" he snapped, his composure finally breaking. "Do you not see? You divide the hall, and division costs more than war itself!" His voice dropped, bitter as cold ash. "But my words are weightless. You will not listen."
For the first time, Rakorr's fury and Mavros's greed turned in the same direction. They glanced at each other—just a flicker, but enough. Both knew Sael's protest meant little. Both knew two thrones agreeing was enough to bind action.
Chaos slowed, narrowed. The storm was not yet over, but its winds were beginning to turn toward a single course.
And though Sael's jaw tightened, though his slate scratched one more bitter note, he knew what the end of this Decree would be. Pride and Greed were circling toward agreement.
Soon, chaos would harden into decision.
---
The chamber still shook with scattered shouts, spears against stone, and the harsh rhythm of warriors dividing into camps. Yet amidst that storm, something shifted.
Rakorr, the proud lion of the Rak'hor, rose from his throne, his shoulders rolling like a predator ready to strike. His voice thundered over the noise, each word hammered into the hall like a drumbeat.
"Enough barking. Enough clinking of trinkets. I will not see our name dragged through mud by a cub. This insult must end. He will not grow into a threat. He will not live to taint our shadows. I demand war."
The chamber erupted again, half the crowd pounding approval.
Then Mavros, gleaming and measured, stood as well. He lifted a single hand, and the hall hushed—not out of reverence, but curiosity. His words slithered smooth as oil.
"War, yes. But war with gain. Blood alone will not feed us. A corpse brings no tribute. The cub must be taken alive. Broken if we must, but caged, not slain. His capture will bind neutral tribes to us, their awe heavier than their doubts. Imagine the parades, the whispers: Rak'hor tame even the wild serpents of the earth."
Rakorr's jaw worked. He spat on the stone floor. "Alive, then dead if he cannot be tamed. No leash too thin, no cage too soft. We break him—or we bury him."
Their eyes locked. For a heartbeat, the hall seemed to tremble on the edge of collapse. Then Rakorr bared his teeth in a grin as sharp as his claws.
"So be it."
Mavros's rings chimed as he spread his arms, his smile smug and certain.
"Two thrones are enough."
The hall shifted. Warriors who had nearly come to blows just moments ago now roared as one, spears beating a thunderous rhythm into the stone. The decision was sealed. Pride and Greed, aligned, had spoken. That was the law.
Sael remained seated, his slate balanced on one knee. He watched the hall surge toward unity, his lips pressed thin. Finally, he spoke—not to sway them, but to remind them of what they had ignored.
"You chase fire with bare hands. You court ruin with arrogance and hunger. My words are nothing before your two thrones, and so I do not resist. But remember this—when the cave walls fall, when allies turn knives to your throats, I will not fall with you. My path is my own."
His words were bitter, but not shouted. They cut through the frenzy like a whisper of cold water, unnoticed by most, but sharp to those few who listened.
Rakorr scoffed. "Hide behind your numbers and slates, Sael. When our banners rise, you'll see glory written on stone."
Mavros only smiled, the kind of smile that meant he was already counting coin yet to be minted.
The chamber surged forward, chaos replaced by ritual once more. Drums boomed in the tunnels, echoing like the heartbeat of the tribe itself. Runners sprinted from the hall, their orders already spilling into the underground city: weapons sharpened, beasts harnessed, provisions measured.
Warriors struck their chests, howls and chants rising as though the caves themselves joined the vow.
Rakorr raised both fists high, voice booming:
"By pride and by blood, we march!"
Mavros's voice followed, silk over steel:
"By coin and by conquest, we claim!"
Together, their voices wove a decree that none could oppose.
Sael alone remained silent, his slate scratched with one final mark: a circle broken at one side, like a chain with a missing link. He tucked it beneath his arm, his eyes shadowed. Already his mind spun with escape routes, hidden caches, contingencies for when the tide turned. He would not be dragged into the abyss by the weight of others' folly.
Above the roar, the proclamation rang clear, carried through caverns and corridors until every ear beneath the mountain knew:
The Rak'hor would march. The serpent cub would be seized—or slain.
The storm had been born.
And far above, in the snow-dusted forests and stone houses of the surface tribe, the ground remained deceptively calm. For now.